


The Dead Woman

by dreamingrain



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, POV Female Character, future rumbelle, skin deep
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-27
Updated: 2012-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-31 19:18:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamingrain/pseuds/dreamingrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s written epic odysseys. She’s spun tales that she recites to herself through chapped lips. Sometimes she thinks of spinning stories on a wheel and how one day she might forget all her words and fall silent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Regina would like to think her a prisoner, miserable and chained. And yes, she is miserable, but Rose is unfettered. After all, how could you be a prisoner in your mind? There’s always places to see and observe – and with all the books in her head she has more places than most.

To let her brain slip, to let the notches of each day pass into oblivion would be letting Regina win. And Rose hates to lose.

 

That’s not to say that sometimes when she wakes up and feels the hard bed press against her back that she doesn't panic.

She’d been _subdued_ after she’d beat her hands bloody on the door. Whatever they had given her had made her feel light and detached and muted. It was terrible.

 

Sometimes after Regina comes with the smell of outside wrapped around her clothes, Rose can smell flowers. Not Regina’s perfume – a musky amber scent that for no reason at all reminded her of blood – but real flowers. Growing, living, green.

 

And she weeps into her plain hospital gown.

 

For as long as she’s been on this earth she’s been in the little cell. If she tries hard she thinks she can remember a time before. Of scrapped knees and climbing trees, and learning how to be polite and how to read – but they shift on her. Like she’s viewing them through water or a bauble that refracts each vision of her past into a thousand other visions until her head is swimming, or she’s swimming, and trying not to drown but _oh god how quickly the water rushes in_.

Rose has learned to hate Jell-O. Learns with a passion that consumes her entire being to hate Jell-O. And the lemon kind the most.

After Regina visits she gets lemon Jell-O and she’s not sure if she hates it because of Regina or if Regina orders her to have her served Jell-O as a punishment for some deed Rose can’t seem to guess.

Either way the walls are painted yellow and for a few hours Rose has the sun.

 

She’s written epic odysseys. She’s spun tales that she recites to herself through chapped lips. Sometimes she thinks of spinning stories on a wheel and how one day she might forget all her words and fall silent.

She’s not as terrified as she should be – the wheel is soothing and she thinks she loves the spinner.

But it’s not enough to have straw, one must be able to turn it into gold, and Rose has no magic. She likes to think that maybe she’s brave, or that she was brave before. These thoughts help when she wants to press herself into the wall and disappear rather than face another night.

 

Which makes knocking out the Nurse rather easy to do. Catatonic is an easy state to fake, and all Rose has to do is train for a few weeks. She’d read a book once about ways to stay fit on holiday, and although Rose is hardly strong the nurse doesn’t suspect that the metal tray would make that sort of clang when it collided with said nurse’s head.

 

In all the stories she’s read – the princess is rescued by a prince. The damsel in distress awaits, swooning from her tower, for the hero to ride in on a white steed.

 

Rose has done her swooning. What she wants – needs – is a white steed. And the courage to step past the doorframe.

She thinks of herself as she’d like to be. Strong and impetuous. Brilliant and cunning. Rose knows she’s clever but it takes her an embarrassing amount of time to strip the nurse of her uniform and keys and approach the door. The door opens with a snick and Rose can’t even imagine a more terrifying sound.

 

But in her stories, she’s brave, and brave women rescue themselves.

 

And so she stands at the top of the tower and jumps.

 


	2. Not Only The Fire

The black and white car lingers on the curb, the hospital beyond obscured by milling people. Sliding out of the leather seat, Emma takes a moment to adjust her sheriff’s badge. It’s her shield and sword and while it’s still new, an uncomfortable and heavy weight she’d never thought she’d have to bear, she lets the star shape ground her.

She thinks: Some shackles are more pleasant than others.  She thinks of Henry.

“Alright, Alright, everyone calm down.” Emma strides through the crowd of people, careful not to run into any of the white clad patients and not so careful about Doctor Whale.

She can see a crowd of old ladies muttering together, eyes glued to her. A young man with a broken arm, an older man with an IV drip. Moe French, in wheeled bed in the parking lot. It seems like the whole town is at the hospital, and each and every one of them are taking her measure.

A wizened old man appears at her elbow and Emma turns to him, and when he smiles and she finds herself smiling back.

The sirens interrupt the moment and Emma looks away, the strange feeling of trust moving to the back of her mind. The town fire truck pulls in front of the building.

“What happened here?” She asks, directing her attention back to the old man with the round face.

“Just a prank,” he assures her. “Probably one of the younger patients.”

“and you know this how, Doctor...”

“Just Doc is fine,” he flashes his smile again.

“Right. Well Doc, I’ll just take a look around all the same.”

Doc gestures towards the building, “be my guest.”

From the corner of her eye, Emma can see Doctor Whale moving towards her, his path hindered with anxious patients. Once the firemen call the all-clear, she breaks away, black heels echoing on cement.

All the faces that line up before Rose seem familiar – as if she’d seen them in a dream. Rose likes this familiarity but she doesn’t trust it.  And so when she sees a stranger, _ the sheriff no less _ , she doesn’t stop to wonder if she’s being too impulsive or if she’s going to get caught. For all Regina’s precautions, locked doors are meant to open during fire alarms. And in a crowd of doctors and nurses, she’s just another bored and irritated person waiting for the end of their shift.

Rose makes her way towards the squad car, walking with nonchalance that she does not feel.  She stops at the outer circle of people and waits for the sheriff to return. Her other self, her brave self would have marched to the car, but Rose cautions patience.

Nothing draws attention more than haste.

And when the patients start filing back in, and the blonde woman with the puzzled face brushes past the glass front doors, Rose waits until the sheriff’s eyes find her. Then with a measured walk, Rose moves to the passenger side of the patrol car and opens the door. She slides in, eyes still fixed on the sheriff.

To her credit the sheriff does not falter. Her eyes narrow and she nods a fraction of a degree. Then she joins Rose in the car. The silence seems unbearable and Rose figets, hands clencing in her borrowed clothes. 

Voice rusty from disuse, she whispers, “My name is Rose French, and you Sheriff are going to take me some place safe. Some place green.”

When the car starts up, Rose lets out a sigh of relief. She feels heady with it. Intoxicated. But she's not safe yet - she wonders if she'll ever feel safe again. Maybe not.  She adds, for good measure, "Regina cannot know about me. At all."

This is something the sheriff understands. Rose knows because there's a tightening around the woman's eyes and mouth -as if the name is sour. 

"If you want me to help you," the sheriff begins, voice even, "Then I'll need more than your name." They begin to drive, gravel crunching beneath the wheels.

Rose contemplates the sound of the wind passing by the car, the flash of green trees whose heavy bowers shudder in the breeze. 

She opens her mouth, then closes it. Thinks. In situations like this you make a deal. Golden fleece don't just fall off sheep. Rivers don't calm their tug, relinquish their prey. A deal must be made. 

She clears her throat and Emma without taking her eyes off the road, flips open the dashboard and hands Rose a bottle of water. The water is warm - but it tastes sweet and pure, and Rose feels more human than she ever has before. 

"I'll make you a deal," she drains the rest of the bottle before continuing. "You give me some proper food - not any of that hospital garbage, mind - shelter, and more of this water, and I'll tell you everything you need to know."

The sheriff chuckles. "You sound just like Mr. Gold."

Rose shrugs. The name means nothing to her. She feels it should, but that's from before. Before even scrapped knees and trees and it hurts to try to remember. 

“Do we have a deal, Sheriff?”

 

The blonde woman sighs – the sigh of a mother whose child has come home in dirtied clothes. Rose likes her sighs.

“The name’s Emma – and we have a deal. Although you’ll have to settle for tap water. I’m not driving out to that wishing well again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...yes. This is still a thing. The titles of the story and this chapter are taken from Pablo Neruda's The Captain's Verses - one of my favourite poets. This will continue to be a story. I have a vague idea of where it's going and I'm going to be terrible and promise no sort of regularity to my posting. Because I'm terrible. But maybe you can expect it often? Who knows.  
> But I like the slow burn.

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm probably going to make this a thing. A thingy thing. A story that's not just one chapter. OUAT made me fall deep in love with Skin Deep - so it's on my mind.


End file.
